One of their own
by RedRavenTree
Summary: When one of their own falls from grace, the musketeers are shattered.Will Richelieu's machinations come to light, or is this the end of the Musketeers? Can our heroes' friendship survive betrayal from within? - First Fic, please review,thank you! D'Artagnan centric, but the Inseparables will have their time to shine.
1. Chapter 1 - All for one

Chapter 1

 _"All for one..."_

* * *

At first sunlight they came for him. As if he still had any fight left in him there were two of them, plain guards with iron-clad clubs at their side. Another two joined them at the end of the corridor, falling in on either side.

The days in his cell and under interrogation had worn him down, instilled a pallor that left him looking sickly, with purple circles under his eyes, dark locks tousled and crusted with blood that had flown from cuts that marked his face and forehead. Relentlessly they marched him on and he felt ashamed at the state of himself, sweating at the exertion of a few steps, stumbling to the point where one of the men had to keep him from crashing into the wall and even supported his arm as they ascended a short flight of rough hewn stone steps. That they had insisted on keeping his hands tied didn't help his balance, either. Or his pride.  
No wonder then, that he stumbled again, over the threshold into the early morning light. But this time he shook away the hand that was meant to steady him.  
These steps were his to walk on his own.

A crowd filled the courtyard with agitated noise, despite the small hours. And they had brought out a contingent of the Red Guard in his honor, which, in turn, brought a bitter smile to his dry and cracked lips.  
But behind the red coats that formed a corridor straight towards the stand, he saw only blue. The yard was full of musketeers. All of them had come to bear witness.  
A lump of ice constricted his throat but he stealed himself and put one foot in front of the other as they looked on. Before the platform that had been erected in the night - the fall of the hammer had accompanied his vigil - the guards fell back. A hooded figure stood motionless, waiting beneath the gallow where a lenght of rope was prepared. As he lifted his gaze towards the elevated stage, he realized that there was a little balcony right above their heads, and it was occupied in grandeur.

Of course. Neither King nor Queen would grace this event with their presence. They had probably taken the court to Fontainebleau for a few days or on a hunt, out of Paris in any case, until the matter was...dealt with.  
And deal with it _he_ would. Gladly. That's how he had become the King's first minister and most trusted advisor, after all.

Cardinal Richelieu was ensconced in an almost throne-like chair, covered in a crimson throw edged with pelt against the early morning chill. His bony fingers had just lifted a delicate cup to his lips, which he lowered again, turning his head to Milady de Winter at his side, beautiful and pale, a neutral...even distant look on her face as she exchanged a few words with the prince of the French church. At his other side another woman had her gaze fixed on her pale hands that clutched a long forgotten cup. Someone he had wished for all the wolrd would not be there and yet had hoped to see for one last time.  
Like a shot, the beat of a drum rang out over the crowd and she raised her eyes in surprise and inevitably found his.

Whatever he had hoped for in this encounter, his wishes were denied.

Hate washed over him, anger, uncredulity and disappointment where he once had found admiration, understanding, laughter and ...but all that was gone.  
 _This was his punishment_. This was his personal hell. Thus, he locked his gaze to hers as he took the steps, one by one, in time with the steady beating of the drum. Still turned towards the balcony, he never broke eye contact while the executioner fastened the rope about his neck with deft and practised moves. Finally, it was she who averted her eyes. Eyes that he might just have imagined held shining tears. He nodded slightly, more to himself than to anyone else and turned from the balcony to face the crowd one last time.

"Any las' words?" He couldn't tell if the executioner had aimed for such a sneering tone or if his strangely pitched voice was the result of the black leather mask and cap that covered his head a little too tightly. He straightened himself and looked out over the courtyard, ignoring the weight of the noose around his neck, the dull throbbing of cracked ribs, the constriction of his hands, awkwardly bound behind his back.

 _"They haven't come"_ he realized. _"They're not here to see how it all ends."_ A violent shudder ran down his spine, almost brought him to his knees in despair, but he proudly threw back his head to disguise it, to not let anyone see his weakness. And after all, he should probably be thankful they hadn't shown up, for the veneer of his strengh was wearing thin. For now, for a tiny moment he felt like himself again, felt a little of the courage and bravado that he had worn oh, so naturally and that had gone so well with the blue cape and the signature leather armor. And the hat. Oh, what he wouldn't give to still wear the hat. Or a clean shirt instead of the torn and soiled rags that clung to him.

But still, there he stood, dashing despite the cuts and bruises, tall and proud like the soldier he had always wanted to be, gathering his thoughts, willing to make it count. Suddenly, he felt the urge to tell them all. Tell them why he had done what he had done, that he hadn't had a choice, that it wasn't his fault; he wanted to scream at them that he was innocent and that it was all… but then he heard the cardinal cough delicately and , without even thinking about it, turned to look at him. Slowly, emphatically, the cardinal shook his head, but it was the old man's thin smile that caught him unawares, cut him like a dagger, tearing open a gaping hole in his chest that threatened to swallow him whole.

He mustn't.

Nobody was ever to know why, or it would all be forfeit.  
So he opened his mouth to plead forgiveness instead, entreat them to remember him as their loving brother in arms, not as the vile thing he had become to them, but in that instant he saw the first of his brothers, the first musketeer turn his back on the stand, on him, then the second, the third…  
and as each of his comrades turned their back on him, _the traitor_ , his courage withered, his shoulders dropped and his gaze fell to the ground.  
Beaten.  
Broken.  
Slowly but surely, the executioner reached for the leaver that would operate the trapdoor and deadly silence descended upon the crowd in the courtyard, safe for the crashing drumroll that reverberated in the windows of the surrounding building.

„..and one for all" the traitor whispered, as the trapdoor suddenly swung away from under his feet.

Colors and shapes blurred into one as he felt himself falling, turning but , impossibly, he caught _her_ gaze again and held it, for the longest instant, registering – at last – the disdain melting from her eyes and anger, hurt, fear and finally…sadness and an overwhelming love flashing across the face of the woman he loved with all his soul. Falling, he wanted to scream her name, but no sound would leave his lips.

 _It had been an exceptionally hot day in the Gascogne and the boys were bone-weary from working in the fields and in the stables. He was still supposed to hone his fencing skills in the quieter hours before sunset, but he had snuck away in the end, even though he suspected his father knew where they were going anyways and tolerated it quietly. The lazy little river turned a sharp corner around the rocks, the steep cliff that had formed at the hillside, the dark water just barely deep enough for their intent. It was foolish. It was beyond dangerous. It was their greatest dare. It was glorious. And, as always, it was he who jumped first, after a short run to gain momentum and deliver his body at a safe distance from the jagged stones.  
A few paces and he was off, arms spread wide like one of the hawks that circled above them in the clear blue skies and he felt, as always, that if he just flapped his arms, once or twice, he'd surely grow wings and fly away and surely, as always, gravity claimed him and he fell, fell without a sound since he was oh, so brave, fell swiftly, silently, like a smooth stone towards the cool river and shapes blurred into one as he felt himself falling. The rush of blood in hie ears mingled with the sound of wind, words, laughter, faces and scenes flashing before his eyes, faster than the frantic beating of his heart. How could there be so much time in such a fleeting instant, such a wealth of memories and pictures contained within mere moments, he had wondered every time. And every time he had tried to hold on to those images, had tried to decipher them, maybe even glean a sight into his future from those apparitions that he could have sworn he had never seen before.  
It always took his breath away, that flood of thoughts and always, always, the impact took him by surprise._

The sudden violent stop made him gasp, a sharp pain at the base of his skull had sudden darkness fall before his eyes and D'Artagnan knew no more.

* * *

 **Remarks:** Sooo... this should probably go at the beginning of the whole thing, but I am pretty new to writing instead of "merely" enjoying what you amazing people put up here, so please bear with me :3  
1\. Chronology: I imagine this story to be set right between the last episode of the 1st season and the first episode of the 2nd season. That being said, I have to admit that I am a huge Musketeers fan, but mainly from the books and movies, the BBC Series being a late addition to the set but nevertheless a great one.  
What does this mean for the story? It is written with the BBC Musketeers in mind (no, they don't belong to me and there is no infringement intended) but the story might not be true to canon eventually. Please appologize, but I'll try to make it worth your while!  
2\. Though this reads like "Tragedy", *spoiler alert*, it won't be! Although I still need to find the proper place for the amount of comfort the musketeers are going to need after this ride.  
3\. Rating is "T" for safety, but I don't plan on it going up. Advise is greatly appreciated though, should you feel I need to put any other markers on the story. Thanks!  
4\. My first story! *squeee* I will try to update regularly but I can't promise anything. Reviews might help speed things up a little, you know, as in knowing someone is out there, hanging onto the pictureque little Gascon cliff I left here.

So long!


	2. Chapter 2 - A Royal Birthday

A disclaimer: Characters belong to Dumas and the BBC.

A warning: I've decided to abandon the series' timeline, only one chapter in. But that might hint at a larger plan in motion XD Thus, this story remains set after season one, but major events after that may be switched around a bit. You've been warned :3

A note on editing:

 **Tidia** was so kind to help me with a note on my editing! I hope it reads ok now. Thank you so very much, lovely Tidia.

 _About Italics: In the text there might be snippets of thoughts, or whole blocks of memories, dreams, or visions. It should usually be clear from the context of the scene, who's thinking of the past or where that moment/vision/idea is coming from. It breaks the timeline and gives you a different point of view. Or leaves you - pleasantly, I hope - confused._

A thank you:

to the people - Deana, Sara Snow and lovely unknown Guest - who took the time to review and encourage me! You rock!

 **Tidia:** like a trained plot-hound you pick up a scent XD Let's see whether you're right!  
 **Debbie:** Thanks for going into such detail, this helps a lot! I hope my note on editing helps you out, or please suggest a different way of editing, so it'll be more confortable to read.  
And about the hat... Let's just pretend it was meant to be like that from the beginning ;-) (Thanks for pointing it out! I owe you...)

And finally, a birthday:

September 5th 2015 marked the 377 birthday of Louis XIV. of France. Long live the crown prince*!

* * *

Chapter 2 - **Some time before**

 _"A Royal Birthday"_

* * *

The streets of Paris were beyond crowded and had been all day. Men, women, children, dotards and crones, practically averyone able to move about on their own two feet was doing so, celebrating and enjoying the holiday that had descended upon France and all of Europe with the birth of the royal child in the early hours of this perfect September day.

Everyone who wasn't a baker, fisherman or otherwise employed in a manner that made them an early riser (or kept them on the streets all night) had been woken by the bells of Notre Dame and every other cathedral, church and chapel of Paris adding their tolling to the joyous din, a noise of alarm that had many a Parisian jump out of their bed in fright before they realized what was happening.  
The confusion had quickly dissipated as the joyous news spread like wildfire: "It is a son! Vive le dauphin*! Long live the King and Queen!"

Masses of people had streamed to the Louvre to pay the first family of France their respects. That the new baby was not actually present to be upset by the deafening cheering, but rather some thirteen miles outside of Paris at the Chateau de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, did nothing to dampen the revellers' spirits. Rather, further merriment issued from the message a royal herald decreed from the balcony: Crisp white bread and sweet cake were to be distributed at the King's pleasure and a measure of red wine from the royal cellars given to every citizen of Paris to drink the Dauphin's good health. And drink they did, even after the free wine was long gone.

Keeping the good - drunk - people of Paris safe that night, albeit increasingly from each other, fell to the Red Guard and the Musketeers alike. But some of the more senior officers had been granted the evening off to join in the celebrations. And, being inseparable and all, the seasoned veterans Athos, Porthos and Aramis had asked Treville to let young D'Artagnan join them. It had taken quite a bit of persuasion and more than a few favours, they had assured the Gascon, probably to make him feel obliged to pay for more than a few rounds of drinks. It worked.

The tavern was packed and the atmosphere was wild and joyous. The Wren was the musketeers' favourite haunt and even though some of her patrons might look the unsavoury sort, most of them were rather law-abiding, loyal to the King, hated the cardinal with a vengeance and all of them knew better than to mess with a musketeer. That's why the four friends had their usual table to themselves where every other available surface was crowded beyond limit with tankards, bottles and ... people.  
Madame Bertine from the 'etablissement' down the street had allowed her girls the night off as well and the Wren was, for reasons named above, one of the safer places the city had to offer at this point.  
Amélie and Virginie had squealed in delight when they discovered Porthos among the throng and the gruff musketeer had immediately offered his knees as comfortable seats for the young women.

As the evening advanced and the wine flowed freely, revels grew even more raucous, to the point where D'Artagnan almost involuntarily raised a hand to his ear to protect his hearing from the "singing" some patrons were undertaking at the bar. The serving girl had had to forsake her duties as she was currently held up in the arms of one of her better looking customers - a quick glance told the young musketeer that it wasn't entirely disagreeable to her - and so the Gascon had taken it upon himself and his purse to get yet another round of drinks to his comrades. As soon as the inkeeper handed over the tankards, D'Artagnen pushed his way back towards their table where Porthos was whispering in Virginie's ear. Not that one would understand a single syllable over the din anyways.

But still, judging from the girl's giggles and the color that rose to her cheeks it was one of Porthos' dirtier jokes.  
Amélie on the other side was threading her pale fingers through the coarse curls that had escaped from beneath the hat, which eventually elicited a contented growl. As D'Artagnan put down the drink in front of Porthos, who accepted it with a wink and a languid smile, he couldn't help but think that this was the noise a bear would make if he ever tried to purr like a kitten.

 _'At least one of us is at ease'_ D'Artgnan thought, but Porthos immediately betrayed that idea by casting a worried glance to one of the darker corners of the room. D'Artagnan nodded slightly at Porthos, no need for words. _  
'I see it, too.'_

Athos' head was drooping, his eyes were closed, his hat was low on his brow, the bottle on the table in front of him almost empty. Even though there were others sitting close to him in that shadowy corner, it was as if the particular darkness around the musketeer absorbed all light and lightness, all cheer from those that came too close. That was why the revellers gave him respectful berth and seemed more than content with the fact that Athos hadn't stirred for quite a while now. D'Artagnan moved through the crowd and hestitated for a moment, looking down upon his brother. By god, he did admire Athos, his skills and his loyalty and there wasn't a day that D'Artagnan didn't give his all to prove his increasing skills and his worth to the man whose approval - and love - he had come to cherish above anyone elses'. To see him likes this...  
The young musketeer quickly shook his head. There was nothing he could do. Even though Athos would lay down his life for his brothers without a second thought he obviously didn't much care for his own fate. Allowing Milady to ensnare him, time and time again... such love turned to such darkness and despair. And it was destroying him, bit by bit. But Athos would rather keep to himself and slowly sever all ties he had with the living world, it seemed, than let his brothers help him in this particular predicament.  
So D'Artagnan extended his hand, the back of it stopping only a fraction from Athos' face and waited. None of the onlockers dared rise an eyebrow at the strange behaviour. One didn't mess with musketeers. After a moment, the Gascon nodded again, apparently satisfied and returned to his comrade and the girls at their table.

"He breathes still. Nothing to worry about." D'Artagnan stated dryly.

Porthos gave an unhappy grunt and cursed "Sangdieu... I lost count of the bottles. One of these nights I swear, he'll succeed and drink himself to death."

Quite the speech. Now it was D'Artagnan's turn to grunt unhappily, no words left to comment on the end Athos seemed to have chosen for himself. A cheer from his own table drew the Gascon from his dark reveries back to the present. A present where Aramis was pocketing the winnings from the round of cards he hard apparently just won with grand gestures. D'Artagnen eyed Aramis warily. Just like with Athos, things were undoubtedly amiss here but the Gascon had yet to figure out what exactly Aramis' problem was.

"It's been a pleasure, gentlemen, yet again." The musketeer's voice was slightly slurry and his hands were moving a tad unsteadily as he picked up stray coins." Another round? Feeling lucky?"

D'Artagnan's eyes narrowed as he observed more symptoms of advanced intoxication on Aramis. A vivid flush to his cheeks, a sheen to his eyes...and a lot of bravado.

"Comeon, don't be like that! " Aramis was loudly teasing his fellow gamblers, but they look doubtful, bashful and one of them was actually quite angry.

"How can one man be this fortunate?"

Even though the words were more mumbled than spoken, Aramis picked up on them and - very much unlike his usually calm self - rose to the occasion "You accuse me of cheating, Monsieur? A King's Musketeer?"

In one fluid motion, Aramis got up from his chair - a slight dip and sway only noticeable to D'Artagnan's sharp eyes - his hand immediately finding the hilt of his rapier.

"Cheating?" all color drained from the gambler's face "No, oh no! I was m..m..merely remarking how...how..."

"How, how..? How what?" Aramis' eyes narrowed dangerously, having identified a prone target " How incredible my skill at reading your expressions? How sharp my eyes as they apparently perceived the mirror image of your cards from the reflection in your own? Or, simply put, how much Dame Fortune favours the bold and good-looking? She is a woman, after all!"

With every word, Aramis had avanced on the unlucky man who retreated, pushing and shoving through the throng while the musketeer prowled after him like a great cat would after a hapless mouse. Even though the musketeer's tone was playful, there was a soupcon of steel in that velvet, and anger made Aramis roll his R's a little.

"How now? Nothing to say for yourself? I am dissappointed I must say! Mordieu!" Aramis turned a little circle as if adressing an audience "I should even go so far as to say that you are right now cheating these lovely people out of quite a bit of entertainment." The smile on his face, as he turned to the man again would have had more formidable foes freeze in their tracks. "I should say they're expecting a fight. How about that now?"

At this point the man who had been so transfixed by Aramis' advance realized he should probably do something smart before he damaged his reputation beyond repair and promptly made the stupid choice. He drew himself up to his full height and raised his fists " A..a..all right, then. Let's see h..how well a cheating musketeer does without his rapier or his pistol!"

At this, Aramis actually laughed. D'Artagnan sprang from his seat, Porthos dislodged both girls from his lap and darted after the Gascon but came to a sudden halt right behind him, when all hell broke lose. Aramis had quickly gotten out of his belt with the rapier and main gauche attached and shoved it plus two bystanders at D'Artagnan who in turn was perplexed for a split second, grabbing hold of the weapons. This was more than enough time for Aramis to launch himself at his chosen target and for half a dozen other young men in the immediate vicinity to start the apparently long overdue brawl of the night.  
Fists flew and connected with jaws or stomachs, knees kneed and elbows elbowed, grunts, screams and laughs errupted all around and the two musketeers were effectively stuck in an enthusiastic exchange of wine-fueled violence.

"Oi! Get off me!" Porthos was more irritated than infuriated by the attempts made to include him in the activity and swatted the attackers off like flies, still stuck behind the Gascon "D'Artagnan? What's happening?"

D'Artagnan was having a harder time with this for sheer lack of mass, shoving people aside and dodging the swings and blows to get to the stretch of floor where he had seen Aramis and his opponent tumble to the ground.  
"I can't see 'im" he replied, a little unnerved by the lack of coordination all around.

He'd truly have preferred to be out on a battle-field or in a proper fight where people at least knew what they were doing. True enough, he heard the noise of shattering furniture over a girls shriek and turned to see Porthos shrug off a former chair, now firewood.

"Porthos! Are you.." was all D'Artagnan managed before something - a stool? a bottle? - went hurtling past his big brother and connected with D'Artagnan's temple. The taproom went spinning and darkness threatened to engulf the young musketeer. Over the seething mass of the crowd he saw Porthos face, his mouth open, screaming, but the forms and noises coalesced into one hellish racket and just before he heard no more, D'Artagnan registered the sound of a shot being fired.

"You should be ashamed of yourself." Athos' quiet accusation was the first thing D'Artagnan could decipher.

Despite the pain throbbing mercilessly in his head he cracked open an eye to see whether the words were directed at him.  
It was Aramis' pale face he saw, though, and it was the medics cool touch he felt tending to his injury. And Athos was talking to the man who started the fight that got their youngest injured. D'Artagnan gave a little sigh.

"You'll be alright." came Aramis' voice, quite subdued "It won't even need stitches, but it bleed a bit." He felt a cup being put in his hand "Drink and stay put."

The Gascon drank, obediently, and relished the cool water. And the silence.  
Another look confirmed that the tavern was indeed empty safe for the four musketeers.

Porthos was sat on top of their table, scrutinizing D'Artagnan and gave a little wink when he caught the Gascon's gaze. "Had me worried for a second, whelp."

D'Artagnan smiled carefully and shrugged, not wanting to speak or interrupt the telling off that was apparently happening at the moment. He was curious to find out what Aramis was going to offer as an explanation for his weird behaviour. But he was more surprised when Athos dropped the matter entirely and sat next to him instead, leaving Aramis to wander to the bar and talk quietly to the landlord.

"Feeling alright, D'Artagnan?" Athos' voice didn't betray a smidgeon of the amount of drink he must have had, steady and soothing as always.

"Yeah..alright, I guess, as long as I'm in this chair" he ventured and cracked a wobbly smile. "I must have been out of it for a while, since everyone's left!?"

"Ah, ..that." Athos smoothed his beard with a nonchalant gesture "A shot to the ceiling might have helped settle matters rather, ah, promptly."

Porthos gave a chuckle at that and from the bar the clink of several coins could be heard. The landlord nodded briskly but not unhappily before disappearing from the room. Aramis came striding back towards them, a pitcher and four cups in his hands.

"Really, Aramis, more drink!?" Porthos teased, but the medic couldn't be bothered.

"Ay, there's something to celebrate, after all." Athos shot Aramis a quick glance at that, but he just set out the cups and proceeded to pour some dark, red wine. then he distributed the cups to his friends.  
"To the King, the Queen and the Dauphin! Their good health and long life on this happy, happy day!"

It might have been the blow to the head, but there was something weird in Aramis' tone, a sadness of sorts, wuite at odds with the words when he gave the toast, but neither Athos nor Porthos seemed to notice so D'Artagnan raised his cup and joined in their chorus "To the royal family!"

"And to D'Artagnan!" Aramis added and it was all the Gascon could do not to choke on the lovely vintage for surprise.

"Me? How come?"

"You really think Treville gave you the night off just because we said please?!" came Porthos amused response

"Er, yes? You made me pay for all these rounds, saying as you had traded in a few favours and all, so..."

"Ah, but we weren't entirely truthful with you D'Artagnan." Athos admitted "You were inviting us because you were promoted just today!"

At this, D'Artagnan simply gaped, open-mouthed, from one to the other. Aramis laughed, laid a hand on the Gascon's shoulder and continued "Treville assigned you to be one of the instructors for the new recruits coming in next week. You'll get your own little troupe of whelps to train. Congratulations!"

"New recruits? Me?! But I must be.."

"The youngest musketeer to make it to this position? Indeed, I should think so, but Berriér has argued the point with some obscure reference. But as far as Treville remembers you are at least one of the youngest. We're proud of you, D'Artagnan!" with these words Athos clasped the Gascon's other shoulder.

On sudden impulse, D'Artagnen rose from his chair and pulled his mentor into a hug. Which was good, because instantly the ground tilted beneath his feet and he grasped onto Athos' doublet and gasped.

"Whoah there, little brother" The older man held on and steadied him, silent words soothing him immessurably "I am very proud of you. Well done."  
A moment later, Athos pulled away to allow Porthos to fold D'Artagnan into a hug which squeezed the breath from the Gascon's lungs.

"Alright, alright, I get it, this really is something worth celebrating!" D'Artagnan turned and reached for his cup which Aramis had filled again "To a new generation of musketeers. To loyalty and friendship. One for all..."

"And all for one" came the unison, thundering answer from his greatest friends in the world, his brothers.

The four musketeers drained their cups once more and in the silence that followed, Aramis took a long look at D'Artagnan, scrutinizing him and finally announced "Something's wrong."

"What?" came the answer from three mouths.

"No really, something's amiss" Aramis looked around the taproom before he located the object he'd been searching for. His own hat. Which he promptly, and gently, proceeded to place on D'Artagnan's head. It fit like...a hat should.

"What's that about?" the Gascon almost whispered.

"You're a figure of authority now and your seniority should be expressed in demeanor and attire. Simply put, my young friend..." Aramis put his arm around D'Artagnans shoulder "You needed a hat. And give me the pleasure of wearing mine."

"I cannot accept that!" D'Artagnan knew well how particular Aramis was about his appearance and how much time it would cost him to pick out a replacement.

"Please, do." Aramis turned to look him in the eyes, a mixture of mirth and something else evident in his expression "I want you to have it. Today. As a gift..." Aramis hesitated, looked around to see Athos and Porthos had wandered off to collect their capes and various belongings from the debris.

Dropping his voice even more, Aramis added "I know that you're looking to Athos as something of a mentor, maybe even a ...fatherly figure in a way" Aramis squeezed D'Artagnan's shoulder at the fleeting moment of chagrin on the young man's face, knowing full well the Gascon would have given the world to have his father in blood witness his rise among the ranks of the musketeers "But I'd like for you to see me in a similar way, just this once. I am so proud of you, D'Artagnan, and whatever becomes of me in this world, I know that you will carry on the legacy of everything that I believe in, of everything that is just and good about what we do. If my son...if I ever have a son." Aramis' slurred his words a little at that "I wish he'd grow up to be a man like you."

There were many things he could have said, or asked, but the look in Aramis' eyes told D'Artagnan that this was not the time. So he kept it simple. "Thank you, Aramis."

"No...thank you, D'Artagnan."

And after a quick hug, Aramis turned around "Let's head home, shall we? Morbleau, what a night!"

* * *

 **TBC**

Addendum: Ok. Work is crazy at the moment and I realize I am really bad at updating regularly, especially when the chapters turn out this long -.-

 **But please, trust me, I've got the story all planned out and I'm excited to present it to you! We've now got the beginning and the end (sort of) and I'll fill out the middle with all the fun bits :3**

 **Reviews are greatly appreciated, I will also go back and do tiny bits of editing to the first chapter, because your suggestions are so very useful, thanks a lot!**


	3. Chapter 3 - From Smoke to Smother

Chapter 3

 _"From smoke to smother"_

* * *

Guard duty in the royal gardens was considered boring by most musketeers, but D'Artagnan didn't mind so much. He loved the artfully planted bushes, the colorful flowers in their ornate beds, the crunch of carefully manicured gravel pathways under his boots, but most of all he liked the silence. Sure, there were birds chirping everywhere, the wind would make the ancient treetops creak and moan and the fountains could make quite a din, but apart from that there was only that,...silence.

This was the silence of nature. A well-manicured, purposefully arranged kind of nature, but nevertheless, he relished it.

The young Gascon would never admit it, he probably couldn't even put words to the fact that he actually missed home sometimes. Missed the farm. Missed his former life. Paris had given him everything he had ever wanted, and more. It had given him a purpose, a bright future and a new family. Brothers. And yet, here, in the stillness of the King's gardens he found a part of himself ache and long for a quiet simplicity he'd given up, exchanged for the life of a soldier.

D'Artagnan dutifully surveyed his surroundings as he continued on his beat of the park. Sunlight, broken up by the bright green foliage above, dappled his form and warmed the brown, well worn leather of his uniform. Finally, after another few uneventful minutes, he stopped and raised his head towards the sky in an attempt to fully catch the warmth on his face. In an almost instinctive gesture he removed the hat that still shaded his visage.

The young Gascon let the hand with the hat fall to his side and became still,very much like one of the ancient marble statues, his face turned towards the sun.  
With every breath he felt his heart beat. Slowly, strongly. A steady, earthy rhythm.

Even though this moment grounded him as if he were one of the ancient trees, even though the city and all its temptations, the court, the barracks and all their obligations felt incredibly distant he couldn't, wouldn't let it slip away. He was the son of Charles d'Artagnan, but a farmboy he was no longer. That part of his life lay irrevocably behind him, even though he sometimes still had to remind himself of everything that had changed. He'd make that trade again, at a heartbeat.

The sound of the womens laughter had been fluttering on the edge of his awareness for a while now. Like a flock of brightly coloured birds they would move through the park, as much enjoying its beauty as adding to it. Sometimes they'd even sing, the young Gascon had heard it before, always withdrawing from the vicinity so as not to disturb their pleasure. Always the curteous professional, something he was also intent on instilling in the new recruits.

So again, he removed himself from the main path, bringing some shrubs between himself and the approaching party, half turning to continue on his way.  
He lifted the hat to his head and moved it about a bit, adjusting, always adjusting. Three days he'd been wearing Aramis' hat now, but he had yet to find the perfect angle. It was then that something made him stop and direct his gaze back towards where he more felt than knew the newcomers to be. Through the twigs and leaves he spotted them at once. Three, four...five women, ladies of the court, moving swiftly but gracefully, always following the steps to the "Dance of Court" as D'Artagnan called it in his mind. There were also some servants, carrying things the Gascon couldn't place at first but then identified as cushions...no, bulks of fabrics in a rainbow of colour. He furrowed his brows, curious to see what this was supposed to mean.

"Oh, this is so lovely, Constance" chirped one of the Ladies, a Soprano, youthful and full of joy. At the mention of that name, a sliver of Ice slid into D'Artagnan's stomach and he froze in place, for all the courteous professionality in the world couldn't move a man who's been turned to stone.

"I am glad you invited us" came the modest reply of a voice like velvet "My husband wouldn't dare ask himself, but I did not want to have you miss the chance of seeing the new arrivals before anyone else."

"Let's see, then" the smile in the Queen's voice was audible "What have you to present, Monsieur?"

A figure moved into the circle of women, out of place like a crow in an aviary. Monsieur Bonacieux bowed elegantly before Queen Anne  
"My Queen, please allow me to present a selection of the finest cloth that I have to offer. Just a few days ago, a new shipment arrived with light and smooth wool, some of it from England, some beautiful satin and silk and there's a few yards of gorgeous brocade and choice samples of lace. It is my profound pleasure to ensure that you're the first to see and judge them."  
At the mention of each fabric, the servants carrying the relevant items stepped forward and presented their treasures. Moving from one to the next, the merchant unrolled a lenght of cloth and held it out towards his potential customers.

"See how this wool catches the light? It has a little sheen to it and, if I may, would complement the colour of your majesty's skin and hair marvelously!" Bonacieux moved the fabric a little to illustrate his claim  
"Just imagine it as a cape, trimmed with some fox against the chill."

The women had moved to examine the wares, all except one. Constance shone in D'Artagnans eyes like a lone flower on the lawn, fresh and beautiful in her simple gown, the chestnut ringlets of her hair gleaming in the sunlight as she watched the scene in front of her. The young musketeer drank in this sight like one would water after a week in the desert. It had been too long, too much of a distance that he had imposed on himself to keep from her, her neighborhood and even the events at court where she might appear in the Queen's entourage and now, there she was, lovely as ever and he loved her, oh, more than ever before.

As if his longing gaze had alerted her to his presence, sure enough Constance lifted her eyes and found his. What transpired in this moment, this eternity where their eyes opened a window to each other's soul, as they had ben wont to do on earlier occasions, how they did _before,_ how emotions he had sought to overcome and bury within himself had engulfed D'Artagnan to the point where he saw the same turmoil in Constance, saw her sway, heard her gasp for air that had fled his own lungs, too and how he broke, how he shattered, again, when he saw _him_ catch her and hold her to his chest, whispering her name "My love, what is it? Are you alright, Constanze?" placing little kisses on her forehead and stroking her cheek "Get some water for my wife!"... finally broke the spell.

Only very rarely would someone run in the King's gardens. It simply was not done, if only out of respect for the gardners tending to the gravel on the paths. But to see a musketeer sprint as if all the devils of hell gave him chase, was an even rarer occasion and a bad sign in itsself. Heart pounding in his chest, legs moving as fast as they would carry him, D'Artagnan couldn't care less about appearances. He didn't even care which way he went, as long as it was away from her and what she meant to him. Headless flight.

Shapes blured into one, green on green, gray gravel, dark treetrunks obstructing his trajectory, bright spots dancing, flowers surely, whizzing about in the vast blue sky. D'Artagnan wiped at his eyes which had started to burn and tear up, caused by the physical excertion, surely, the frantic, never slowing kind.

Only when he heard the rasp of several blades being drawn from their scabbards did he come to a standstill and took in his surroundings.  
A handful of soldiers of the Red Guard had formed a line in front of him, rapiers drawn, apparently willing to keep him from continuing on his way. D'Artagnan straightened, took a deep breath to steady himself and found that his hand had automatically fallen on the hilt of his own weapon. A small smile projected confidence as the Gascon steeled himself for what was to come.

What he didn't expect was the voice that commanded the Red Guard to stand down.  
As the soldiers moved aside, albeit reluctantly, and sheathed their rapiers again, Cardinal Richelieu smiled from the stone bench he was currently occupying in the little rondeau secluded from the rest of the park by high hedges.

"Well met, D'Artagnan." There was a book on the small stone table in front of the Cardinal, a caraffe with water and a delicate glass goblet to match. The prince of the French church had obviously enjoyed a little time off his duties, as it were, but didn't seem to mind the interruption in the least.  
If this worried D'Artagnan, the next words were fit to terrify him.

"Please sit. I've been meaning to talk to you for quite a while."

* * *

 **Thank you for your patience! Thanks for your reviews, they mean a lot to me *squee*! Please let me know what you think :3 (And, not to promise too much, the next chapter is actually almost done, since I decided to cut this chapter a little shorter. So you'll get to hear what the cardinal has to say very soon!)**


	4. Chapter 4 - Sympathy for the Devil

Chapter 4

 _"Sympathy for the Devil"_

* * *

D'Artagnan looked around to get his bearings, but his mad dash had brought him to a part of the grounds that he didn't know that well. A quick glance confirmed that he was quite far from the palace, on the edge of the park as evident from the high wall visible in the distance. Somewhere hereabouts, he remembered, there should be a gate in the wall that led to a road that could be travelled with larger carts that were needed to maintain the grounds, but for appearances sake couldn't be navigated through the park. But it didn't lend itself to a quick escape, since, for one, it was safely locked and, on the other hand, since the Red Guards intent on executing the command implied in the Cardinals wish, had positioned themselves at some distance, but clearly close enough to prevent D'Artagnan from making a run for it.

Accepting his fate for the moment, the Musketeer stepped forward and sat down without any further acknowledgement of Richelieu's rank. The older man glossed over this faux-pas by decidedly not offering any of the water from the carafe. Sweat was cooling on D'Artagnan's forehead from the run and his throat felt parched, but he, in turn, would rather have perished than even think about asking the Cardinal for a single drop of drink.

Silence. The Cardinal let his gaze travel over D'Artagnan, taking in every detail to the point where it made the Gascon feel even more out of place and uneasy than the situation warranted.

"So what is it you wanted to talk about?" he blurted out, shattering the uncomfortable silence.

The Cardinal took his sweet time "I wanted to congratulate you."

It took every ounce of D'Artagnan's will to keep his body from betraying any emotion. An open book to his friends, the Gascon knew that a man skilled as Richelieu would be able to read even the smallest of gestures to glean the answers he sought. Knowing that the man was likely toying with him, made him sick. And angry. And knowing that Richelieu knew…he needed to be stronger than this. And he needed this to be over as quickly as possible.

"Thank you. I can only return the compliment."

"How come?" The Cardinal arched an eyebrow at that, but didn't seem to mind wandering off the topic he had started.

"You're still here. Congratulations." D'Artagnan feigned a relaxed, confident tone "Although it must be quite the sour feeling knowing that you're at the mercy of the one person you intended to obliterate. Just to think that it only takes one word from her…"

"She is indeed merciful and knows when to forgive." The Cardinal interrupted "And _who_ she forgave. I am the first minister of France, a fact that you may choose to overlook in your foolishness, but she, in her wisdom, cannot leave out of the equation. My place is at the King's side. So as you can see, against all your hopes and wishes, I have not been banished from Garden Eden." Richelieu made a gesture encompassing the beautiful park as well as the guards at his disposal, and smiled.

"It wouldn't be much of a paradise if they got rid of the snake, that's true." D'Artagnan's tone was defiant and he could tell that he had again struck a chord with the Cardinal from the indignant hiss that crept into the man's voice. Careful now.

"If this is how you choose to see me… It is quite pointless to stress to the likes of you that in all my actions I hold France's interest at heart, above all else. And a troupe of ignorant, selfish, over-confident "soldiers" who go rogue at any given opportunity is hardly conductive to the welfare of the crown or the people. The Musketeers are nothing but glorified pets the King deigns to keep to amuse himself, but he fails to see that they're doing more harm than good. You and your friends are the prime example of this, meddling in affairs you have no business with, delusions of grandeur included, just because _he_ dubs you an "elite"…"

As if to stop himself from being carried away in his rant the Cardinal raised a hand and gave a tiny wave. D'Artagnan was a little startled when a servant appeared from a gap in the hedge and bowed to Richelieu. A few words from the Cardinal, too low to understand, and the man disappeared again.

"Where were we?" The Cardinal furrowed his brow a little "Ah yes, Biblical references. Not a topic I was expecting to touch upon with you of all people, but it is up to God alone to judge."

"True." D'Artagnan was getting more and more fed up with this conversation. Where was the point of all this? "And I have no doubt that God has a very clear understanding of your merits and your virtues, quite beyond the titles that you have somehow attained here on earth. But I fail to see why you would waste what little time remains to you…" he gave Richelieu a pointed look "…on petty revenge on a handful of people, when there's _France's interest_ at stake. I may suffer from delusions of grandeur, but that's considering myself a tad too important."

"So what's puzzling you is the nature of my game?" A smile curled the old man's lips as he tilted his head ever so slightly "No wonder you fail to see the bigger picture. Let me assure you, my young friend, that I have not run out of moves yet. Your trick with the Queen a few months ago threw me, admittedly, and has set back my plans quite effectively, but I see it as a gambit rather than a check-mate."

Richelieu leaned forward a little, his gaze fastened on D'Artagnan with an intensity that had the skin on the musketeer's back crawl with unease. The cardinal continued, unfazed, and if D'Artagnan had hoped to make him go into more detail on his plans, he was sorely disappointed

"What all this has shown me, in any case, is that I have found worthy adversaries in you. I may have underestimated you at first, but all the pieces are in place now and I'll enjoy winning this _parti_." Again, that smile "Though I doubt that you'll be available for a rematch, once the game has run its course."

"Are you threatening me and my friends, Cardinal?" D'Artagnan wasn't sure whether to be perplexed, offended or scared.

"Always." With a languid wave of a bony hand, the same servant as before stepped forward, setting two delicate cups on the table. "Drink with me, D'Artagnan, before we part ways again."  
The Cardinal picked up one of the cups and apparently expected the musketeer to do the same. D'Artagnan sat, unmoving.  
"Come now, don't be like that." Richelieu let the cup sink to his lap and shook his head, as if admonishing a petulant child "Now that I've admitted my respect for you, treated you almost as an equal, you will deny me the courtesy of sharing this _chocolat_ with me? It is something of a guilty pleasure, I'll admit, but I intend to be quite offended if you reject my request." The Red Guards moved a little closer at the Cardinal's words that had been spoken loud enough for them to catch the hint.

D'Artagnan picked up the little cup without much further ado. It felt fragile in his grasp, the porcelain shining in the sun, the dark liquid inside thick, scenting the air with sweetness and the aroma of spices. Cinnamon? Cardamon? D'Artagnan had little experience with cooking and even less love for sugar or chocolate, but if this would finally put an end to this meeting he might as well get it over with.

The Cardinal raised his cup again, took a sip and closed his eyes, obviously relishing the experience. D'Artagnan shrugged his shoulders and downed the contents of his cup in one gulp. He rose to his feet immediately and placed the cup back on the little plate on the table. He wanted to say something, but the _chocolat_ was still coating his mouth like sirup, sticky sweet, so instead he swallowed thickly, again wishing for some of the water that sparkled in the carafe before him.  
The cardinal had meanwhile emptied his own cup and licked his lips. "That wasn't so bad, was it? I am actually glad to see that you're willing to go about things in a more civilized manner. Makes everything so much less…complicated."

The sweetness in D'Artagnan's mouth was suddenly replaced by a bitter taste. The Gascon frowned as he realized that his limbs were shaking and before he could so much as shout or curse the Cardinal for his sudden but inevitable betrayal, his surroundings spun violently and he felt his face connect painfully with the gravel ground.

As darkness encroached sluggishly, giving him a feeling almost as if he was being drowned in a vat of the treacherous _chocolat_ , D'Artagnan strained to remember the Cardinal's words

"Let's take this young man to meet his family."

* * *

 **Thank you, lovely 'Tidia' and 'Guest', for the reviews, this chapter I dedicate to you and 'pain in the mikta', whose review spurred my writing as well! I am so sorry for not updating more regularly, thank you so much for your encouragement and above all, patience! So glad you like it!**

 **Tidia: It really breaks my heart the way Constance and D'Artagnan had to let each other go at the end of Season One, so I kinda put all of that into this scene. He's so young, too, and quite emotional at times, so I felt it was something he might do, be stopped by her voice first and then run away. Glad you like it**

 **Guest: Thank you for your kind words, you made me blush. I've been wanting to write here for ages and I am still finding my style, but I am so glad you think it's worth reading already!**

 **Next chapter might take a bit, sorry for the cliffhanger (Again. Aaaargh. But I love those, myself!)  
**

 **Bonus round: Spot the quotes. There's a song and a TV-Series I referenced :3**


	5. Chapter 5 - The Sun over Gascony

Chapter 5

 _The Sun over Gascony_

* * *

 _He hurt. Badly. When D'Artagnan opened his eyes everything was blurry and painfully bright. He moaned in anguish."Shhh, mon chou, it'll be alright." At the sound of her voice, a wave of calm washed over him. It would be alright. It had always been alright, once she had worked her magic and given him a kiss to make it all better. Sure enough, he felt the soft touch of her lips on his forehead. "It hurts, Maman" he sighed and opened his eyes again. Her face was washed out in the brightness, the darkness of her hair framing ...nothing...the shape of her eyes, her mouth...nothing... he couldn't see, couldn't discern... couldn't...His head hurt. So much. He reached both hands up to his forehead and felt warmth._

 _He looked down at his hands and dark stains swam into focus, Where had all that blood come from? How had he been hurt? Again he wiped at his forehead, feeling more liquid come off. Uncomprehendingly he stared at his hands again for a moment, then he raised his right to his mouth and licked his fingers. Bitter. Sweet._ Chocolat _. Why chocolate? He didn't even like it._

 _A scream rent the air and made him look up. The house in front of him burst into flame in absolute silence, as if a keg of gunpowder had blown up inside. He shielded his eyes in an instinctive gesture, cowering down to not have the blast sweep him off his feet, but there was none. The air was completely still, no sound was to be heard except for the deafening roar of the blood pumping through his own veins. They were still inside. He had to get them. He had to save them. But he couldn't move. Even though his heart was beating like a sledgehammer, his limbs wouldn't obey. He screamed his anguish and frustration at the blaze, every fiber of his being straining to move towards the flames that were distroying...killing...taking away from him... when a hand on his shoulder broke the spell and allowed him to turn around._

 _"I miss them, too." Alexander squeezed his son's shoulders affectionately. D'Artagnan raised his face to look at his father. Tears flowed hot over his cheeks and he felt a calloussed hand caress his face  
"Never feel ashamed to love and show it, my son, or to hurt. It is what makes us appreciate life as we should." Both father and son turned again to look at the gravestone in front of them.  
"Makes us appreciate how precious it is."  
Two names. Francoise. Marie.  
"How fragile."  
Suddenly, his father's embrace became a vice-like grip._

 _The walls of the hole were crumbling earth on them as he moved, struggled. He felt his father's still body beside his own, dead arms still holding him fast. Cold. So cold.  
"As we gather to commend our brother D'Artagnan to God our Father and to commit his body to the earth..." Richelieu was smiling wickedly far above him, the lines and wrinkles in his old face etched out by sunlight against a clear blue sky, far, so far above, as more and more earth fell from the sides of the grave, covering D'Artagnan's face until he shook his head again, making his eyes blink and burn, falling into his mouth that gaped in silent screams.  
"As we take leave of our brother, give our hearts peace in the firm hope that he will be united with his familiy again in the place you have prepared for him in heaven."  
Maybe this was it. The only way. D'Artagnan stopped struggling and fell still. To see them again. To see her face again.  
"We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen."  
More earth. Suffocating. Darkness.  
If only death would make the pain go away.  
His head hurt. So much._

* * *

"Shhh, don't struggle. It'll be alright." He felt a calloused hand caress his cheek.  
"It hurts, _Maman_." His words came out slurred, and low, but she understood and laughed.

"I know. Be still, and don't touch it." The hand was removed and the voice moved away. D'Artagnan knew better than to open his eyes right away. He took stock first, as much as the pounding in his head allowed. He was lying on a soft surface, a bed most likely. He felt warmth on his face and one side of it felt positively on fire. His limbs were heavy, as if he had drunk too much and he had a bittersweet taste in his mouth. What had happened?

When everything came back to him, his eyes flew open and he sat up apruptly, instantly regretting the motion as light and pain hit him like a hammer. He cradled his head in his hands, which caused even more pain, grit his teeth and groaned. Instantly, hands were at his shoulders  
"I told you to leave it alone."  
The Musketeer froze under her touch, but fought his instincts to lash out and defend himself lest he hurt her.  
"Where am I?" he ground out between clenched teeth and opened his eyes again, forcing them to focus on his hands. No blood. No stains.

"You're safe."

"Who're you?"

"My name is Marie."

At this, D'Artagnan looked up and at her. She was sitting on the side of the bed he crouched on and just calmly returned his gaze. Ebony hair framing a heart-shaped face, tan skin and dark eyes encircled by lines that spoke of love and laughter. She wasn't young anymore, a few years older than himself, but beautiful, especially when she smiled, D'Artagnan was sure of that even as his breath caught in throat.  
It would be a smile as warm and radiant as the sun over Gascony. A smile he'd lost and almost forgotten.

So Richelieu had told the truth.

"Marie." he whispered, incredulous, but quickly gathered his wits about him and cleared his throat with a cough "Can I trouble you for some water? I am parched."

"Of course." She got up and turned away from him. D'Artagnan used the moment to look around the room, suddenly suspicious, and sure enough there was a man sitting in a chair on the far side of the chamber, next to the door. He looked completely relaxed, but his gaze betrayed his wariness, and a minute shake of his head confirmed what D'Artagnan had assumed. _Don't try anything._  
There was a rapier at his side, along with a main gauche and probably a pistol within easy reach. D'Artagnan's eyes widened when he realized that the man was wearing a Musketeer's uniform. _His own uniform_ , to be exact. The guy had the audacity to flash a smug little grin.

"You should be grateful Monsieur Armand found you and brought you here." Marie held out a simple cup which D'Artagnan accepted gratefully.

"He did?" D'Artagnan sounded unconvinced. _And told you he was called "Armand" of all possible aliases._ The Gascon emptied the cup and held it out to Marie in a quiet plea for more. As long as she was around, and as long as he didn't know what her role in this was, he felt it safer to play along in whatever charade this was going to be. At the cool draught, his headache subsided a fraction.  
"What happened?"

"I think you were accosted by some thieves. I found you not too far from here, unconscious and without any valuables...or proper clothes" explained "Armand" "You must have been running away from something or someone, tripped and hit your head. Or rather, your face."

At this D'Artagnan raised his hand to the side of his face again, but Marie caught his arm, and placed the cup in his hand instead.  
"Again. Please try not to touch it. It is scraped and severely bruised, I had to remove dirt and small stones and put a dressing on it, but you're lucky you didn't break your cheeckbone. You must have been falling quite awkwardly, because this looks as if you didn't even use your hands to break the fall."  
D'Artagnan gave an unhappy sigh at the description that hit so close to the truth and yet missed it completely.

"What can you remember?" She continued.

"How do you know how to patch someone up like that?" D'Artagnan turned to ask Marie instead of answering her question with lies. Whatever the Cardinal was playing at, he had felt it necessary to show him instead of just telling.

"My mother taught me." Marie moved away from the bed towards the door "Which reminds me that I need go look after lunch. Hungry mouths to feed." She smiled the smile D'Artagnan had thought lost and it did make the Gascon's heart miss a beat. "Will you stay and eat with us?"

"We'd be delighted." The fake Musketeer replied with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

D'Artagnan was out of the bed and had his hand at "Armand's" throat a bare second after Marie had closed the door behind herself.

"Tell me." The Gascon gave a good squeeze for effect, but had already lifted the main gauche from "Armand's" belt and used it to support his request "What. Is. Happening. Here."

The man remained quite calm at the threat of a livid D'Artagnan "I am here..." he rasped, struggling a little to get the Gascon to allow him enough air to answer the question "I am here to escort you and to ensure that noone gets hurt. My main concern is the safety of the ladies of the house."  
D'Artagnan removed his hand from "Armand's" throat and placed the main gauche there instead. _Ladies, plural_.  
"And why don't I dispatch you, tell them what happened and take them away from here?"

"Ah." The man was still completely relaxed, his hands on the armrests of the chair "You could in all probabiity achieve the first, but that would raise the question of why you'd kill a Musketeer. And even if they were to believe you after that, what makes you so sure our _'mutual friend'_ has not put additional safeguards in place - and let me assure you, where he is involved there'll always be those - to avoid such a thing from happening?"

Slowly, D'Artagnan let the weapon drop, leaving behind a minute cut and a few drops of blood.

"That's the smart choice." "Armand" got up and straightened _his_ uniform. "We have another two hours I'd say, then we will leave. See what you have to see, learn what you need to learn. I trust you to remain...careful."

With that, he swept from the room.

D'Artagnan straightened and turned around. Through the small window came the light of a bright day, confirming what Marie had said. Noon. He had been out of it for almost twentyfour hours. At least. A few steps to the window further confirmed, that, although his headache was withdrawing, his knees still felt weak, and the room still blurred around him when he moved too quickly. Whatever had been in that devilish _chocolat_ , D'Artagnan had no desire for another taste.

The view outside was a little unexpected, though truth be told, D'Artagnan didn't even know what he had been expecting in the first place. He found himself at least five meters above ground, so he had a good overview. The house was - at least on this side - surrounded by a stretch of field and then nondescript woodland. A sizeable wall separated the grounds from the fields, there even was a narrow parapet. Not a house, then, rather an estate. There was a garden beneath the window, too, not like the ones the King or other aristocrats favoured, but a useful one, with rows of vegetables and herbs, but also flowers and some shrubs that had been trimmed into fancyful shapes. Just at the edge of his view he could discern more buildings, lower to the ground, stables probably.  
There were people moving about, there, at least three to four men, servants or other personel and probably part of the "safeguard" he'd been told to expect.

With an unhappy sigh he turned away from the view and ran both his hands through his hair, careful not to touch his injury. What was the meaning of all this!? What in God's name was the Cardinal playing at?! The Gascon felt dark dread settle in his stomach. He'd probably find out soon enough. The little conversation in the park had been nothing but a distraction of that he was sure now. The game had barely begun.

"Well, best stay sharp, then." D'Artagnan looked himself down. Fortunately, he was decent enough for company, though he'd been stripped of his cape, pauldron, doublet and belt. His boots stood next to the bed, but the hat was nowhere to be seen. _What a mess._

* * *

 **I decided to do two chapters instead of one here to give you the first part right away and to not make the chapter to long. A lenght of about 2000 words per chapter is starting to feel quite comfortable, what do you prefer?**

 **** **The second Genre might change in the course of this, I realized, but I am unsure as to what to put...Family (Quite possible, now XD) or Mystery (For you, poor reader - did I already say sorry? -being as clueless as our D'Artagnan).**

 **** **Well, anyways, our Gascon still needs to meet someone else and I am sure he's anxious for the moment to arrive. Please let me know what you think!**


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